Broken
by queenlovett
Summary: An injury. A reunion. A mystery. Will Edith and Anthony be able to overcome the obstacles once more blocking their path together? Or will their pain and pasts tear them apart again? My thanks to the wonderful Baron Munchausen for publishing this while my computer is kaput. Thank the Internet deities for the mobile pm system on this site.


November 1922

Anthony Strallan was distinctively uncomfortable. The offices of a newspaper were the last place he ever thought that he'd find himself. The offices were noisy; the clacking of the typewriter keys, the ringing of the telephones, and the low murmurs of reporters and columnists mixed to buzz annoyingly in his ears. The fact that you could see everyone in their offices milling about, because of the glass that took up half of where the walls should be, made him wonder how anyone got their work done.

His chair was hard and high-backed; he shifted in his seat, trying to avoid a back ache. He tapped his foot lightly as he looked around, waiting for the reporter who had contacted him. It was doubtful that he'd even entertain being here if it hadn't been for the prodding of Doctor Harrison, and his assurances that this would help him in the long run.

He would not lie, if asked, he found his current situation very embarrassing. He never expected anyone would ever want to ask him about his service during those awful years. After all this time, most people just wanted to forget and move forward. Anthony sighed. Andrew Jefferson would most likely be very disappointed at how dull and boring his story was. Spending most of the war with papers and plans in his hands did not make for an exciting story. Field work had been very rare for him. It would figure that with his luck, he'd get shot. And really that was it. One week, he was in France getting shot at and the next week he was in England, recovering, end of story.

Finally, after running the gamut on maudlin thoughts, he spied through the glass a young man heading to the office Anthony was waiting in.

"Sorry for the wait, Sir Anthony. Afraid I got caught up in a meeting, and if there's one thing reporters can do, it's talk."

He quickly sat down at his desk and shuffled some papers around as he searched for his pen. "Now then" he paused, observing Anthony for a moment before continuing. "I wanted to thank you for coming in. I've not had many replies from others. Here at _The Sketch_, our readers are still very interested in the welfare of the men who've returned from the front. We like to remind people of the human side of the war and..."

Anthony tuned out the rest of what he was saying. Not out of rudeness or inattention, but because something Mr. Jefferson said had caused a niggling in the back of his mind. Ever since he had received the reporter's letter asking him if he would like to come and share his story, the name of the paper had been teasing at the back of his mind. For the life of him, he simply could not recall why he knew it. Part of the reason that he gave into Dr. Harrison's insisting so easily was to satisfy his own curiosity.

Anthony coughed and turned his attention back to Jefferson as the latter lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

"So, what was it that inspired you to..."

Anthony's attention once more turned away from the man sitting across from him. A rather large crowd was starting to form in the office next to the one he was presently in. It looked like they were putting up some sort of banner and one of the secretaries was rolling in a cake.

Seeing that the focus was no longer on himself, Jefferson turned around to look at what had distracted Sir Anthony.

"Ah, I'm afraid I haven't timed our interview very well."

Anthony looked at him questioningly.

"Today's the return of the editor's favourite columnist. Poor girl, shame what happened to her." The man stunned out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk, took off his glasses and began wiping them with a handkerchief.

"What happened to her?"

"She was in a horrible car accident; nobody really knows how exactly it happened. The one thing we do know is that she barely survived. They had to amputate her legs apparently. Wheelchair withstanding, she's really quite lucky. That's what that meeting was about that delayed me. The higher ups wanted to warn us about how we treat her, to treat her as we did before her accident. Of course I never met the lady; I wasn't hired until May, a month after it happened."

Anthony felt sadness for this woman. If there was anyone who could empathize, it was him. He was lost in thought, recalling his own struggles, unaware of the bombshell Jefferson would drop.

"You might know her actually. I heard she's from Yorkshire; some aristocrat's daughter."

Anthony felt like he had been punched. His mind started racing and he now had a sinking suspicion as to why the newspaper's name sounded so familiar. But still. It might not be her. When was the last time his sister had sent him a cut-out of her column? March? It could all just be coincidence. There were a lot of aristocrats' daughters in the Yorkshire area.

Swallowing thickly, Anthony asked, "What is her name?"

_"Please, please whoever is listening, don't let it be her"_

"Emily? No, that's not right. I know it began with an 'e'. Um…horrible with names you see, a bit problematic with my choice of occupation. Elizabeth? That doesn't sound right either..."

Anthony could feel his good hand start to tremble. His voice got soft and strained…"Edith?"

"That's it! I remember now! Edith, Edith Crawley."

Anthony crumbled inside. He felt as if the floor would fall out below his feet. He felt sick. He had to get out of there, before...

He heard the people all start to clap, but thankfully the large crowd blocked his view. He didn't think he could handle seeing her like that. He rose quickly, gathered his hat and coat from the chair next to his, not bothering to put them on. His hand was on the doorknob before Jefferson even knew what happened.

"Wait, where are you going? What about the article?"

"I'm terribly sorry, I... I have to go."

Jefferson followed Anthony out into the hall.

"Some other time, perhaps?"

Not wanting to be rude even in his distressed state, he nodded once and said, "Perhaps."

He then turned around and started to make his way out of the building. Unfortunately, he had to pass the crowded office in order to leave. Some traitorous part of his brain made his head turn ever so briefly as he walked past. To his dying day, Anthony was sure that his heart would always be broken remembering the sight of the once vibrant Edith Crawley so miserably stuck in a wheelchair.


End file.
